


Oscillation

by Arcwin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fix-It, Fluff, Idiots in Love, John Watson is also Bad at Feelings, Just references to Mary, Love Confessions, M/M, Mary is not actually in the story, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Season/Series 03, Sherlock Holmes Teaches John Watson to Dance, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, This is about our Baker Street boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-06 19:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19069576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcwin/pseuds/Arcwin
Summary: Series 3 Behind the Scenes!Sherlock teaches John to waltz in preparation for his wedding to Mary, and it has unexpected results!





	1. Chapter 1

John Watson is getting married.

(Not to me.)

Being a genius has only a few downfalls, one of those being a social ineptitude that naturally accompanies a hyperfocus on intellectualizing. Though it is true that I am capable of considering multiple ideas at a time, I have a tendency to focus on things relevant to advancing my own knowledge of the world, especially in relation to a case. Short version: I think too much and ignore the people around me. (Especially their emotions, my ~~flatmate~~ friend Doctor Watson would say.)

I hadn’t considered fully how my absence would affect his life. Though for me, it felt as if I had engaged in a 2 year intermission from the main drama of my time on this planet, for him it apparently was an ending of one chapter and subsequent new beginning.

With _Mary_.

And now, he’s living with _her_. He shares a bed with _her,_  cooks meals for _her_ , texts _her_ when he’s on his way home, and is going to, rather soon, be married to _her_. My own opinions about the pointless institution of marriage aside, this turn of events is one I find abhorrent. It has nothing to do with Mary, naturally. She is, as one would expect, perfectly suited to John. She balances him in a way that he needs. She’s clever, funny, quick-witted, and talented. _A good catch_ as Lestrade says.

(I hate it.)

John seems like he might be happy this way. Or, at the very least, not depressed. The last time I saw him truly happy, it was after we had solved the Baskerville case. We returned to the inn in Dartmoor after helping Henry get home, and John immediately ordered us a couple of pints and plopped down in one of the wing chairs by the fire. He gestured with his head at the seat across from him and smiled at me, his shoulders dropping with relief.

 _You changed his life_ , he said. _Maybe now he can heal._

I waved my hand between us and looked over at the fire, feigning indifference to his praise. Secretly, pride was swelling in my chest at his acknowledgement of my contribution to Henry Knight’s psychological well-being. I wanted to say _See? I care, sometimes. I’m not my brother._ Instead, I said nothing.

 _Cheers_ , John murmured as he took a drink of his pint. He slipped his shoes off and stretched his feet out in front of him, resting them on the edge of my seat. For a moment, it felt like we were home. I glanced up at him, watching the fire dance across his face, and he smiled again as our eyes met. There was a warmth there that could easily be interpreted as _love_.

I suppose it was.

Not a day passes that I don’t consider how my actions have led us to this point, my stomach churning with what _should have been_ . However much life can be built on a foundation of regrets, I know that an effective mind is one free from the shackles of _caring_ , and so I rarely look behind me.

(Even when it comes to John.)(Especially when it comes to John.)

He’s getting married, and there is _nothing_ I can do about _that_.

Earlier, he texted me and asked permission to come by Baker street for tea. I reminded him that it is absurd to ask permission, as this will always be a home to him. He read my reply, though he didn’t respond. He often doesn’t, especially when I make it known how important he is to me. Perhaps he doesn’t know what to say. (Perhaps he doesn’t believe me.) It isn’t worth mentioning, though part of me wishes he would say something, _anything_ about it. Even if it was just a coarse _piss off_ as a way to invalidate the emotional connection we share. The silence is unbearable.

Downstairs, I hear the door creak open and shut, and then his familiar footfalls on the steps. He’s moving slowly, and his weight is shifting in a way that reveals his trepidation.

Not _just_ tea, then.

He’s come to ask something of me, and he’s nervous about it. _Idiot_. I would do _anything_ for him. Technically, I died for him. (I would do it again, in a much more permanent fashion, if required.) What could he possibly want from me that would cause such anxiety? He already asked me to be his best man, already asked me for assistance with planning his wedding ( _to_ _her_ ). There are two months until the event, and nearly everything has been accounted for. That which hasn’t I have on a list and am systematically making my way through it. There is literally nothing he needs to concern himself with. The care I have put into the preparations for his wedding is with as much veracity as I would for my own. (It is a moot point, of course. There will be no Holmes weddings.)

As the door swings open, my speculation falls silent. His request is written all over his face, whispered in the creases of his pants and the flex of his fingers at his side. _Obvious_. Though I cannot begin to contain my excitement at his need for me, I find a thrill in making myself wait.

“Afternoon,” John says, clearing his throat. He smiles over at me, a curt one full of stress and fear. He removes his coat and hangs it up, shutting the door to the flat in the process.

“Hello, John.” The kettle whistles in the other room and I move to get it, quickly pouring our respective cups and carrying them over to the living room. He’s already seated in his armchair, fingers toying absentmindedly with a loose thread at the edge of the arm. There’s a quiet _thunk_ when I set down his tea, followed by the creak of the leather on my chair as I slide into it.

He considers his tea, despite it being clearly too hot, and sighs. More toying with the thread beneath his fingers, more clenching and unclenching of his jaw. I make my observation of him no secret, gaping openly with the hopes that it will draw his gaze from the floor. He takes another deep breath and lets it out between his pursed lips, and finally I cannot take it anymore.

“For God’s sake, John!” I shout, startling him. He glares at me, head tilted and eyes narrowed. “Out with it!” The demand fills the space, then dies away just as suddenly, and we are caught staring at one another. I dare not blink, lest the intensity of the moment be lost.

He clears his throat, frustrated with me, and reaches for his tea. “Out with it?” He blows gently across the top of the cup, sending the aromas of bergamot and orange my direction, and takes a sip.

I mimic him, taking a sip of my own tea while keeping his gaze. “John, you know full well what my answer will be.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“Don’t be stupid, John. It doesn’t suit you. Of _course_.”

He sets his tea down and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Hm? Of course what?”

“You want me to teach you how to dance.”

His eyes get wide, vasodilation tinting his cheeks. “What?” What a terrible actor.

Scoffing at him, I snap, “Don’t feign ignorance. You’re much smarter than people think, and you certainly aren’t going to trick _me_. It doesn’t work, you know that.”

“Excuse me?” he says curtly, jaw clenched. Now I’ve angered him, and he still hasn’t admitted that this is exactly why he’s here.

“You,” I explain with an eyeroll. “ _have_ to dance in front of a moderately sized group of people who _know_ you and who you feel _obligated_ to invite to your _pre sex-holiday party_ \--”

“ **Sherlock**.”

“And you don’t know how to dance with any semblance of skill outside of whatever one might find at an overcrowded university pub,” I finish with a false grin. When he doesn’t immediately argue, I drain the last of my tea and lean back in my chair.

Silence. Crossed arms, clenched jaw. Then, resignation, as he always does when it comes to me. “So you’re offering to teach me,” he says quietly, looking down at the floor again. He’s embarrassed about this. Is it because he’s _not gay_ and he’s asking a man ( _me!!!)_ to teach him to dance? Dancing doesn’t have to be about sex. (Though, it _is_ very intimate and often counts as a form of foreplay.)

Perhaps it’s making him think about having sex.

 _With_ _me_.

He clears his throat, clearly still uncomfortable. His feet fidget on the floor, fingers toy with the loose thread. The flush in his cheeks is more prominent, and he keeps opening his mouth as if he’s about to speak.

Oscillation. Considering withdrawal of the request.

 _Unacceptable_.

“John.” His gaze snaps up to mine, the hesitation to continue and urge to flee evident on his face. I must do something to lighten the mood, or he’ll give up entirely and I’ll lose my chance forever. “I can’t have you making a fool out of yourself in front of all of those people. Then they would forever associate your foolish gyrations with me, and it would tarnish my reputation.”

Blink, blink. “As long as you’re doing it for purely selfish reasons.”

“Naturally.”

“Right.”

*    *    *

I’ve been waiting for him to initiate our first session together, only to be disappointed and antsy for two _entire_ days. Finally, my phone dings while I’m in the middle of analyzing different strains of bacteria that could be used to incapacitate a victim. (It’s for a case, _obviously_.)

_Busy tonight?_

_Not in the slightest._

_Thai ok?_

_Of course._

_I’ll bring it to the flat. See you then._

I return to my microscope, a smile creeping across my face. John wants to dance _tonight_. Everything will be prepared exactly as I’ve planned. This is my only chance to _touch_ John, to _hold_ him and _show_ him how much he means to me. Even if he will interpret it as an act, a ruse related to my showing him how to dance for his wedding (to _her_ ). He’ll never understand the intensity of feelings I keep tucked away in the darkest corner of my Mind Palace, but tonight, he’ll get a glimpse.

And then, he’ll be _gone_ , and I’ll return to my life of solitude. Mycroft would say it’s better this way. I’m not supposed to get involved, I’m not supposed to care. It would have been less painful if I had followed the rules instead of falling prey to the self-flagellation, the martyrdom inherent in loving a man who cannot love me back.

If I am loveable at all. One shouldn’t assume.

 


	2. Chapter 2

John arrives precisely when I expect him to, holding a large bag of takeaway and sporting a false smile. He stands in the doorway, shifting back and forth on his feet, as he glances around the living room of the flat.

“You moved the furniture,” he says stiffly. His jaw clenches (irritation? No, anxiety) while he stares at everything except my face.

“Well of course I moved the furniture. You don’t expect us to dance while tripping over side tables, do you?”

He nods in understanding, but refuses to move from the door. I suppose the flat does look dramatically different. The chairs we usually occupy are in my bedroom, along with their tables. I rolled up the rug (dancing on hardwood is best, of course) and stashed it in the corner behind the couch. The table proved to be the most troublesome, as it required some disassembly in order to remove it from view. A final circuit around the periphery was all I needed to contain the rest of the clutter in a few boxes that I stowed upstairs in John’s old room along with the table and chairs. It took no less than two hours to complete the job, despite Mrs. Hudson’s best efforts at interrupting me more than a few times. (She cannot seem to help herself, prying incessantly at the reasoning behind my bizarre behavior. I dared not disclose it, for John’s sake.)

John. Still shocked John. As if I have ever been known to do things less than perfect. His time away from me has made him forget.

“Dinner?” I prompt, hoping to break through his catatonia.

He blinks and nods again, then seems to shake off whatever was keeping him paralyzed and looks over at me. “Starving,” he says, voice gruff. Our eyes meet for the first time, and my heart leaps in my chest. (I’m aware that hearts are incapable of leaping.) There’s an expression on his face that I cannot place, though I recognize that my own ability to make deductions is impaired when he looks at me _like_ _that_.

With an exaggerated step into the room, he drops his gaze from mine and strides into the kitchen, dropping the bag of takeaway on the table. John turns and grabs two plates from the cupboard along with two forks from the drawer, and pulls out the containers of food. The smell of basil, lime, and chilli permeates the flat, drawing me to my seat and making my mouth water.

We eat in silence. Under the table, his knee bounces. It’s distracting. I would say it’s irritating, but it’s _John_ , and I know _why_ he’s doing it. Knowing why doesn’t stop the bouncing, though. So, we eat, and I keep my comments to myself.

(He’ll _leave_.)

I clear our plates once we finish, stacking them in the sink.

“Want me to do the washing up?” John offers, standing up and leaning against the counter. He’s close to me, reminding me of our previous familiarity. Since I’ve returned, it’s been different, less...comfortable. More awkward pauses, more stilted conversation. It’s unbearable at times, and I end up doing and saying impulsive things just to see how he'll react.

He placates, or else ignores me. (Not invested.) (Doesn’t care.) (Unimportant.)

“Leave the washing,” I reply, pushing such unhelpful thoughts out of my mind. I’ll deal with them later. “We have work to do.”

John nods and turns to look at the nearly bare living room, then nods again and takes a step forward, then stops. (Oscillation. Curious.) “What...how do you…,” he trails off, gesturing towards the empty space without looking at me.

“For a man who has seen the horrors of war and does not hesitate to charge towards dangerous criminals, this shouldn’t be intimidating, Dr. Watson,” I comment, sweeping him forward with a hand in the small of his back. He complies with several stuttering steps, legs stiff and uncooperative.

“Is it that obvious?” he asks with a nervous chuckle.

“ _Honestly_ , John,” I respond, wrapping my arm further around his waist and pulling him close to me. My heart races, pounding against my ribs so hard I keep his chest a few inches from mine, knowing it’ll give me away. With my other hand, I grasp his and pull it up, settling us into typical ballroom waltz positioning. “Now,” I start, throat tight. “We’ll start with me leading so you can understand the basics, and then you’ll take the lead so you can practice.”

“Right. Good,” John croaks, body tense in my arms.

“And you’ll need to relax,” I murmur, looking down at his hair.

He stares at my throat, refusing to look up, and nods once. “Don’t we need music?”

“In a moment.” Let me savor this. Let me hold you. (I need you.) Let me press my body against yours, John. Just this once. “What do you feel?”

“Excuse me?” His head snaps up to look into my face, blue eyes wide. “What do you...”

“Focus on how you feel. Dancing is about feelings, not thoughts,” I explain, breath hitching in my throat as he stares into my eyes. (Intense. _Overwhelming_.) An urge swells within me to cradle his face in my hands and lean into a--

“Music would probably help,” he interrupts, looking away. “Associations and all that.”

Get it together, Sherlock. This isn't about wooing him, it's about teaching him how to dance. For his _wedding. (To her.)_ I lost my chance, if there ever was one. I lost it the moment I told him I was flattered but married to my work. (Stupid, _stupid!)_

Though I'm reluctant to let him go (lest he come to his senses and flee), I nod and release him, striding across the room to the MP3 player I hooked up. Naturally I recorded myself playing a variety of waltzes, along with the piece I composed for this event, so the lilting sounds of my violin soon fill the air.

Returning quickly to his arms, I spread my fingers across the small of his back and pull him close, much closer this time, until we're pressed shoulder to groin. Taking a deep breath, I will my heart to stop stuttering in my chest and smile down at him. As if sensing the gesture, he looks up through his lashes at me and smiles back. He's soft, small crow’s feet branching out at the corners of his kind eyes while the lines around his mouth deepen in sincerity.

It's the most genuine smile he's given me since I've returned, and it turns my thighs into jelly. In all of the scenarios I predicted, I never thought about how much he would affect _me_. I spent too much time considering how best to deal with his discomfort and too little time thinking about my own reactions to him.

This may prove problematic.

Smooth violin music flows around us, a natural beat already established that urges us to dance. Taking another full breath, I nod and retrieve the files in my Mind Palace related to the waltz.

“Ready?” I ask, not knowing if I feel ready myself.

He hums in agreement and tightens his hand around mine as if strengthening his resolve. Always the soldier. No backing out now.

“One, two, three...”

*    *    *

It’s clumsy in the beginning, as it is with all new things, but it doesn’t take long before we achieve the natural flow of our partnership on the floor. The music cycles between various songs composed by all of the great artists, interspersed with my own pieces. Despite the differing styles, John is able to adapt the basics of the steps and starts adding his own flourishes and complications. It’s remarkable, and it only serves to deepen my love for him.

After dancing for nearly an hour and exhausting the playlist I’d prepared, we pull apart for a break.

“Tea?” I ask, already headed into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

“Ta,” John calls from the living room, sounding relaxed and content. After pulling down our teacups, I turn to watch him as he restarts the playlist and practices the steps on his own, his back to me. He raises his hands and begins stepping around the room with an imaginary partner. (Mary.) As he turns, however, I notice the height at which he has his arms--much too high for Mary’s waist. Much too high for _most_ women, actually. Thankful that he has his eyes squeezed shut, I continue my voyeurism, entranced by his liquid movements around the room.

The kettle whistle jolts us both, him dropping his arms immediately while I nearly jump out of my skin like a teenager who’s been caught watching porn. Before he can catch my eye, I turn and busy myself with the tea. He was clearly imagining dancing with _someone_ who was _not_ Mary. The smile yanking at the corners of his lips gave it away. An old lover, perhaps? Or a crush? Curious.

We enjoy our tea at the kitchen table. John is much calmer, both legs still beneath him and his hands relaxed on the tabletop. He toys with the string of the tea bag, a contented smile on his face as he watches me drink mine, eyes tracking the mug from the table to my lips. Though we sit in silence, the violin music the only thing between us, the air is vastly different than it was during supper. Something has shifted, though I cannot figure out exactly _what_.

The moment I drain the last of my tea, John places his hands flat on the table and stands up. “My turn,” he announces, gesturing with his head towards the living room. “Will you queue up the song in the middle of the playlist? The one that sounded different from all the others?”

“Which?” I ask, stalking over to the media player. (Not mine.)

“Goes like this,” he says, then starts humming _the_ _song_ I composed for his wedding. “It’s the best one, I think. My favorite, anyway,” he says. ( _Favorite_!?)

I glance up at him, sure that he’s teasing me. Somehow he must have figured out that I had written that piece for him (and _me_ ) and Mary (lies, lies). The smile on his face says otherwise--he’s waiting expectantly in the middle of the room, hands on his hips and eyes soft. I’m drawn to him, returning to his arms as the waltz begins. He settles his hand on the small of my back and pulls me to him, his other hand snatching mine up as he takes the lead.

John dances me around the room, his confidence having grown tremendously since the beginning of our lesson. It feels so natural, so comfortable that I force myself to forget _why_ we’re dancing in the first place.

In my mind, it’s a quiet evening at Baker street. We’ve just solved a case (double murder posing as double suicide, barely a 5) and are releasing the pent-up energy left over from the adrenaline rush of earlier by dancing together. He brings me around the room, holding me close while smiling up at me his secret, fond smile reserved only for me. Lamplight twinkles in his eyes, highlighting the golden flecks in his irises. The music flows through us both, binding us together like invisible cords. We are inseparable, joining together as a single entity entirely at the whim of the violin.

“Well done, John,” I compliment, my voice barely above a whisper. “Impressive.”

A blush tints the tips of his ears. “Passing your test, am I?” he teases. “Watch _this_.” With a flourish, he pulls me away from him in a twirl, the entire movement as fluid as if we had practiced it daily for years. As I roll back into his chest, his arm tightens around my waist, possessive, and he grins wickedly.

“I’ll repeat myself. Impressive. Perhaps next time we can work on your dip--”

Before I can finish, John plants his feet and bends my entire torso over his forearm. It catches me entirely off guard, eliciting a gasp of surprise as my perspective of the living room is upended. He bows over me, chest heaving into my stomach as he remains steady. I know he won’t drop me, so I allow myself the moment to bask in such an intimate gesture from the man I have given my world to.

“Like this?” he whispers.

My brain feels like it’s full of static. “Precisely, John.”

After a few more breaths, he pulls me upright, bringing our chests flush. I can feel his heart pounding behind his ribs, a steady thumping that mimics my own. It’s grounding in a way, reminding me that we are both human, both alive and wrapped around each other. This isn’t another exercise in my Mind Palace. This is _real_.

It’s _real_ , and it’s likely the last time we will ever be this intimate. I’ve spent the past few months ignoring this, delusional about the inevitability of our future apart. So deluded, in fact, that I’ve thrown myself headlong into pressuring us forward, wanting to get it over with instead of prolonging my agony by waiting. Like ripping a plaster, it’s best to yank it off. Get it done, and move on.

(As if I could.)

“Sherlock,” John murmurs, bringing me out of my head. (Always so good at that.) His voice is serious, thick with something I don’t want to notice or name.

“Hm?” Don’t do it, John. Don’t tell me something I can’t live with.

He clears his throat and holds me tighter. “I can’t...I can’t do this.”

Dropping my arms from him, I nod. “I understand.” He won’t let me go, though. He won’t let me step away. It’s a mixed message, and it confuses me.

His mouth opens and shuts several times as he considers what to say, then stops himself. (Oscillation, again.) What aren’t you sure about, John?

“Don’t,” he says, reaching down to bring my hands back up to his waist. “Don’t, Sherlock. Just...give me a moment, would you?”

Nodding, I replace my hands and reciprocate holding him. “Of course, John.”

Another few moments pass, and he finally frowns to himself with resolution. “Sherlock, I can’t do this. I can’t marry Mary.”

(What?)

“Everyone gets _cold feet_ , or so I’m told. One of the many reasons the concept of a wedding is so ridiculous to me. Why does one need to go through an expensive, anxiety provoking party in order to declare one’s love? Frankly, I think--”

“Shut up, Sherlock. You’re not listening to me,” John interrupts, huffing out a sigh. “I can’t marry Mary because I’m not in love with her. She was...a _solution_. A way to forget. A way to try to move on, or heal, or...something. I love her, and being with her would be...fine. But it wouldn’t be...it wouldn’t be…,” he trails off, shaking his head.

Looking down at him, I ask, “To...move... _on_? **_From…_ **?”

John’s laughter surprises me, filling the flat. It’s a cold sound, one that’s jaded and empty. “Come on, Sherlock. Don’t be an idiot.” I have no idea what he’s talking about. (It isn’t me, even if I _want_ it to be.) I shrug, and he laughs again. “ _You._ To help me move on from _you._ ”

(...)

“You _died_ , and it left me in a place I don’t think you want to know about. Mary was a solution to that, a way out of the void. She made my dead world start blooming again, in small ways. And then, you wanker, you _came_ _back_. You showed up and it was like that bit in The Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy steps out of the grey house and everything is in full technicolor. Nothing compares to that, Sherlock. _To_ **_you_**. Nothing compares to you, and I can’t marry Mary knowing that I’m choosing a life of grey when there’s a world of color on the other side of the door.”

(...)

(Too much. No words. Not real?)

“John.” My voice sounds strangled, false. (Not mine?)

“Hm?” he asks, a hand sliding up to cup my cheek. My heart is racing faster than the best hit of cocaine could ever give me, so fast I should be worried about arrhythmia. I’m not worried about anything, though. Not now. Not anymore.

“I made a mistake,” I start slowly with a harsh swallow. Why is this so hard?

John’s face falls and he looks down at our feet, nodding to himself. “I know, Sherlock. Married to your work. I’m not...I don’t expect anything from you. I just want to be by your side, however that looks.” He shrinks in my arms, losing his confidence with every passing second. (Fix it, fix it!)

“No, that’s not--let me finish. I made a mistake. I panicked. I _was_ married to my work because that was the only thing worth devoting my life to. I suppose, in a way, I still am, though my... _priorities_ ...have _shifted_.” Bringing my hand to his chin, I tilt his face up to look at mine again. Narrowing my eyes, I peer down at him. His lips part, pink tongue sliding out to slowly wet his bottom lip, and the last of my impulse control disappears.

Dipping my head, I hover my lips in front of his, nearly touching while searching his eyes for any hesitation, anything uncertain. Finding none, I inhale and smile.

It’s _real_ , all of it.

Before I can bask in the realization further, he pops up onto his toes and presses our lips together. Heat prickles up the back of my scalp, sending tingles down my spine while he threads his fingers into the curls at the base of my neck. He tugs gently, pulling me down to him while his other hand slides up to rest over my stuttering heart. It’s glorious and uncoordinated, and I love it.

No, that’s incorrect.

I love _him_. I love John Watson.

(And he might love me?)

He pulls away, breathless, and leans his forehead against my shoulder. “ _Christ_.”

“Not quite,” I quip, smirking into his hair.

“Shut up.” He leans back and looks up at me, cheeks flushed. “I’ve got to talk to Mary.”

The next song on the playlist begins, filling the flat with a lilting, romantic waltz meant for sleepy couples at the end of a long evening of dancing. Grabbing his hands, I place them appropriately and smile. “Another day, John. One, two, three…”


End file.
